


Introit

by MnM_ov_doom



Category: Darkest Dungeon
Genre: Gregorian chant meets the fandom, M/M, Reymas if you squint, and some smut, characters navigating feelings, here's some fluff, the Jester knows too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29677104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/pseuds/MnM_ov_doom
Summary: Tardif stands still and quiet, marvelled and… afraid? Awed, certainly, by Damian’s powerful yet sweet, soothing voice. But there’s something about it – the tone? the chant? the words Tardif doesn’t understand? – something so eerie and stern that go beyond human. It gives Tardif the impression of being small and fragile. There’s an impending sense of doom behind Damian’s voice, maybe from how his voice alone is such a massive presence. Maybe it is the solemn simplicity of the chant, Damian’s voice alone.
Relationships: Flagellant/Bounty Hunter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Introit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carpe Natem (Demeanor)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/gifts).



> A present for the ever patient Carpey. Happy birthday, my friend!

The first time Tardif had walked in a church, he had been following a target. Said target had known he was being followed, because back then Tardif had been young, not very stealthy.

And because the target knew, he had hidden in a church, counting on the holiness of sacred grounds to protect him. By law, churches and other religious buildings were inviolable, and those who sought refuge within should be granted the safety they were after.

But Tardif had gone after his target, undeterred. He had never been a religious man – not for the Church of Light, that was still foreign to him. He knew the custom of those lands, though. He ought to, as a professional. Tardif knew churches were safe harbours. Yet, he had seen many a ruined church on his travels, many a destroyed shrine and many desecrated holy places brought down by petty aggrievances between lords. No higher being had objected.

And so Tardif had strode across the nave, holding his axe in a hand. The inside of the church had been bright despite the late hour outside: many candles had been lit along the walls, and on chandeliers hanging from the high vaulted ceilings. Tardif’s target had disappeared behind the altar, covered by a white cloth. A voice had called out for Tardif, authoritatively, from the right transept – yet, Tardif had ignored the voice, had leaped up the stairs to the altar and had found his target cowering on the stone floor, knees pulled to the chest and arms raised protectively above his head. That had made Tardif snort – he had yet to face a target who would defend themselves instead of trying to buy him, plea for mercy and (or) try to hide behind bodyguards.

(The _body_ guards were outside, where they had tried to ambush Tardif in a back alley.)

“By the Light, stop! You cannot harm those who seek sanctuary in sacred grounds!” The voice from the transept had been a friar - middle-aged, fat, with a healthy pink to his cheeks and brown curls on his tonsured head. His robes had been too tight on the stomach and he had been quite short – even so, he had valiantly stood between Tardif and his target. Foolishly, too. Tardif had snorted, amused – not many had the gut to try to intervene in a bounty hunter’s job, and churchmen didn’t have the bravery they demanded from crusaders. It had been easy to knockout the friar with an upper cut (his skull had made the unholiest sound when it knocked against the altar, as the friar had fallen unconscious from Tardif’s blow) and it had been even easier to split his target’s head in half with his axe.

He had left his trademark note on the altar, unaffected by the blood on it.

By the time the church bells rang frantically, Tardif had already been on his way out of town with a heavy purse for reward.

* * *

_Sometimes_ Tardif has fits of bitterness, and it has gotten worse ever since he came to this Light-forsaken place. Staring at his hard-earned gold makes him restless, alcohol isn’t numbing enough, and the years have taught him to be wary of places like the brothel.

Fighting is good. Fighting is relaxing. Fighting makes him focus, makes him think. It’s pleasantly distracting. Fighting soothes a little his craving for contact while keeping him safe, because it’s a _fight_. Fighting feels good - when he wins, of course, which has not been the case, and the fresh memory of Boudica’s victory cry is still rattling his brain inside his skull and rubbing salt on his wounded pride. Fighting is always better with a vicious opponent, or with a favoured sparring partner who won’t mind Tardif’s ruthlessness – and while Boudica is excellent like that, she’s still not Tardif’s favourite. No, the favourite almost never spars with Tardif, for he is oh so busy sparring and besting himself…

Tardif wanders, paying little attention to his surroundings – a fatal mistake in his line of work, and once he feels better, he’ll chastise himself for having made himself such an easy prey. But for the time being, Tardif thinks only about how he’ll die horribly at the hands of cultists or in the gaping maw of a monster, and that money isn’t worth it, and that there’s money to be gained out in the world, and why won’t he admit he’s terrified of this place and just leave, and why is he so stubborn and proud, and-

His booted feet have taken him to the entrance of the abbey, and Tardif looks at the building. _Really_ looks at it.

The abbey is decrepit and uninviting, perched on its high nest of mossy masonry and looming over the Hamlet, dark and grimy just like the entirety of this sad place. The bell tower has collapsed, like the Light itself was merciful enough to break it, so that fools could not be summoned to be fed false hopes. The roof is sagged and tattered, with one big hole that allows the elements into the inside of the abbey. Most of the stained glass is broken and the windows are boarded.

But the door is open, and a faint glow barely reaches the rotten wood of the door. If Tardif makes the effort (he doesn’t quite feel like it), he can hear voices. The religious zealots enjoy wasting their free time here – Tardif can’t understand why offices and whatnot cannot be celebrated elsewhere, if the Light is the omnipresent entity the Church claims it to be; and if the Light is to be honoured and praised and have its boots licked, how could a shrine outside be offensive in comparison to a crumbling church?

Tardif sneers and turns his back at it.

A few days later find Tardif sipping at a pint, standing in a lonely corner of the tavern and watching his surroundings. The place is rather crowded that night – townsfolk and mercenaries alike – all because the damnable jester is playing the lute. It’s not exactly like that, in fact the game is so more intricate than mere ‘playing’. Tardif has been studying it for a while, and he doesn’t like to admit he couldn’t figure it out at first.

But he has, now. And that is yet another reason as to why he makes himself scarce – watching Stan shit-talk others is very entertaining, but Tardif has no wish of catching the jester’s attention. The fool doesn’t seem to have restraint, not for what Tardif has gathered from the complex ties that have formed among some of the mercenaries. Reynauld is a favourite victim of Stan, and Tardif grins internally since his mouth is temporarily exposed. Baldwin _used_ to be a victim, and whenever Stan turns his mockery towards the hulking leper, his sharp tongue is tame. Dismas is a recurrent victim, too. And Audrey. Paracelsus deserves almost the same tameness as Baldwin, and so does Alhazred. Junia, the poor thing, was driven to tears once – even Tardif was rather upset on her behalf, and Tardif is _not_ the most empathetic man out there. Josephine, Barristan, and Missandei are usually spared. Boudica was made fun of once. Amani has yet to be made fun of. Bigby and William (and his spoiled lap dog) feature occasionally.

So far, Tardif has evaded drawing attention that Stan might deem worthy of putting into those mockery songs.

Damian, too, has yet to be mentioned. But maybe not even Stan can find a way to ridicule what is already ridiculous. (This is a magnificent taunt and Tardif stores it away carefully, already savouring the satisfaction of repeating it on Damian’s face.)

With one mighty gulp, Tardif empties his pint and covers his face – right on time, since Stan goes on to sing, accompanied by a lovely melody of his lute, about how Sir Reynauld so bravely faced the perilous dark of the barracks to move from his bed into Dismas’ – he proceeds about how Reynauld and Dismas had such a good time but ruined the rest of the night for everyone else. Tardif snorts and casts a look at where Reynauld (conveniently hiding in his bascinet) and Dismas (disappearing inside his scarf) are sitting.

They certainly are the sad hamlet’s most widespread secret… just like Stan and Baldwin. Except that Stan and Baldwin usually let everyone else sleep. Tardif is not one to enjoy gossip, but in his profession, gossip is valuable material – as such, he listens carefully for every secret, for every detail. But he has no wish to hear Reynauld’s and Dismas’ endeavours in a more sordid shade (he was there, after all; he was there in his bed, curled under the tattered blanket, questioning his life choices) and since nobody is getting mocked over losing a fight or about something they said, Tardif pushes himself away from the wall, walks to the counter to return the pint, and leaves.

The night is warm, gentle, and the fog that shrouds that cursed place has lifted enough to let him see stars in the vast dark sky. He likes the spring, and so wanders the decayed hamlet. His booted feet take him once again to the abbey, and there is still light trying to reach the door. This time Tardif makes the effort to listen to a voice inside.

The usual office spectators are all at the tavern, except for Damian. Tardif sometimes wonders if the residents of the abbey ever feel tempted to kick the flagellant out – heck, the Light itself must constantly roll its eyes at Damian! The thought is oddly amusing, and Tardif is in spirits high enough to feel just a little curious about who might be talking in the abbey while Stan is roasting ‘sinners’ at the tavern. Maybe he’ll even try and drag Damian out of the penance hall?

Tardif doesn’t go into churches, unless he’s after a target. This night, however, he walks in on his own free will.

As expected, the inside is as uninviting as the outside: dark, cold, austere. Stone floor and stone walls. Immediately above the doorway, a gaping hole in the roof allows Tardif to see the sky, crisscrossed by broken beams – is this place even safe? It smells to dust and moist, to fungi and rot. The stone pillars are charred, some are chipped. There are no pews this close to the door, only a couple of rows – all broken and crooked - closer to the stone altar, where a brazier stands, harbouring a feeble flame. The light doesn’t quite reach Tardif, by the doorway, but it casts enough light around Damian (that collar gives him away easily) standing rigidly in front of the altar.

Apparently, he’s alone.

Which means, it’s his voice filling the void of the abbey, reverberating on the bare stone with bone-chilling might.

_Aurea luce et decore roseo,_

_Lux lucis, omne perfudisti saeculum:_

_decorans caelos inclito martyrio._

_Hac sacra die, quae dat reis veniam._

Tardif stands still and quiet, marvelled and… afraid? Awed, certainly, by Damian’s powerful yet sweet, soothing voice. But there’s something about it – the tone? the chant? the words Tardif doesn’t understand? – something so eerie and stern that go beyond human. It gives Tardif the impression of being small and fragile. There’s an impending sense of doom behind Damian’s voice, maybe from how his voice alone is such a massive presence. Maybe it is the solemn simplicity of the chant, _Damian’s voice alone_.

_Resolve, tibi potestate tradita,_

_Qua cunctis cœlum verbo claudis, aperis._

Think of it, and that chant is just like the flagellant himself – _terrible_ , and Tardif leaves quietly before Damian’s chanting enthrals him further.

* * *

It deeply bothers Tardif that he didn’t know Damian could sing. The secret to survival and a to a successful business lies in knowing _all the details_. And so Tardif, aiming at nonchalance, asks around the other mercenaries if they happened to know the flagellant could sing.

(By no means is Tardif butthurt that his favourite sparring partner never mentioned he could fill a damned abbey with his voice alone.)

Stan comes up with bullshit about how everyone (Tardif included) can sing. Barristan is so amused by the thought of Damian, the flagellant, _singing_ , that his beer nearly comes out through his nose. Bigby is particularly terrified of the flagellant and as such had no idea Damian could sing.

“Of course I knew. The flagellant and Junia can perform offices. They know the rites, and the chants,” Reynauld informs, and it just lands poorly on Tardif. Maybe because the ever-righteous paladin of virtue never once stops being a crusader. “You’d have known that earlier, too, if only you opened your mind to the faith.”

Truly, Reynauld’s crusading manners are irking. Tardif is too selfish and self-absorbed to feel _left out_.

To Reynauld’s remark, Tardif snorts and shakes his head. He had tried to explain Reynauld that many of his patrons – quite generous, actually – had been churchmen. Tardif carries records of all his jobs with him, in case he ever needs to blackmail someone. While Reynauld had acknowledged the imperfection of the Church, he had stubbornly continued to praise the Light. Tardif has no patience for it.

He proceeds his inquiries. Junia, of course, knew. Baldwin, too. Audrey finds the thought amusing. Dismas has the cheek to mock Tardif for having gone into the abbey, like he was suddenly _religious_. That is an incredibly discouraging remark, and Tardif pouts, giving up his inquiry. Why should he care, anyway? Instead, he sets his mind to ask Damian himself about that haunting chant.

For the second time, Tardif walks into a church on his own free will. There is no chanting (and he is not disappointed by that), and aside from the abbot watching over the flame in the brazier at the altar, there is nobody at the chapel. He turns into the left transept and walks into the gallery that leads to the penance hall, right on time to see Damian emerging from it.

They had first met months ago, shortly after Tardif’s arrival. Damian had already been at the hamlet, terrorizing the citizens with his greed for collecting the sins of others and carry them on his shoulders. Tardif, like the other mercenaries, had been no exception to Damian’s obsessive hoarding, but while the others had, so far, ignored Damian for as much as they could, Tardif had made the mistake of trying to beat Damian into leaving him alone.

Up until Tardif’s arrival, Damian hadn’t gone in expeditions. Tardif sometimes wonders if Damian did that in purpose (be around Tardif some more? Annoy him extra with his religious gibberish? Raise to his taunts and sort it through wrestling?) or if it had been just chance (more souls to collect? More sin to keep for himself?).

“The bounty hunter, in the abbey!” Damian tilts his head and crosses his arms. The buffoon, and Tardif grins. “My, what miracle brings you here?”

For starters, Tardif could accuse him of never having set foot at the guild again – well, of rarely leaving the abbey.

“I heard you could chant,” he states nonchalantly, and he too crosses his arms, looking down at Damian.

Before replying, Damian peeks at the abbot. Damian remains silent as he walks past Tardif, but touches his arm in an awkward hybrid between a pat and holding, as in pulling Tardif with him. Usually, Tardif doesn’t allow touching – and he has noticed Damian isn’t the type to touch, either. Truth it, gratuitous touching does go on between them (Tardif counts elbowing and jabs as touching).

They leave the abbey in silence, and once they reach the stairs, Damian sits down. In the daylight, Tardif can see the lacerations on his back, the rivulets of blood drying on his skin, the stains at where his garments sit at his hips. It’s not like Tardif cares. It’s simply… a shame. Damian would make a fine warrior, a fine professional – he has all the good traits.

Except the greed. Damian’s is of a different kind.

With a grunt, Tardif sits next to Damian and they spend yet another moment in silence, observing the hamlet, until Damian lowers his cowl – something he often does around Tardif, and to retribute, Tardif removes his own headgear.

“Of course I can chant. I learned the rites and offices,” Damian states matter-of-factly. He raises an eyebrow. “You’d have known that if you made the effort to atone for your sins and spent more time at the abbey than at the tavern,” He scrunches up his face. “Or at the brothel.”

“I didn’t climb all these steps to hear you preach,” Tardif grunts, annoyed, keeping his eyes on his boots. Let Damian think him vice with legs, what does it even matter?

“And you probably didn’t climb all these steps to inform me that I can chant…”

It should make Tardif exasperated. Tardif has little patience for witty, childish remarks. And yet, that defines most of his conversations with Damian: bickering back and forth with varying levels of causticity. The remark makes him bark a laugh, and while he laughs, he sees Damian smiling, visibly pleased with himself.

But put it simply… Tardif did climb all those steps to inform Damian that he now knew Damian could chant. In retrospective, it’s silly, and it quietens Tardif’s laughter. He doesn’t know what to say, and so remains silent. He appreciates that Damian, too, resumes to share the silence with him.

* * *

Tardif is not the most sociable of men. His default reaction to strangers is despise, and interactions either lead him to further despise, hate, or respect. That’s his usual range of feelings towards others.

These mercenaries, Tardif respects them and trusts them just enough to share the barracks. He can point many faults on them, also a few good qualities. But in general, these are not people Tardif would risk his neck for.

But then there’s Damian, the Light-awful anomaly in Tardif’s perfect, schematic, strict social protocols. Tardif hated Damian the moment he tried to bully him and got punched, respected him the moment he retaliated and Damian put up a fight… and somewhere between sparring and snarling at each other and killing enemies together Tardif grew _fond_ of Damian.

And now this, sneaking into the crumbling abbey in the evening (‘Vespers’, if Tardif bothers to be technical) just to hear Damian do that wonderful voice trick.

Sometimes, Reynauld, Junia, and Baldwin are there, as well as the other abbey dwellers and the abbot, presiding rites. Like now, as they all stand before the altar and chant. Junia’s voice is shrill, borderline unpleasant because Tardif’s hearing is both sharp and sensitive – a valuable trait in his profession, and he puts it to good use by isolating Damian’s voice from the other male voices in the choir.

Damian’s voice is still daunting, terrible – and while it still scares Tardif just how small and insignificant it makes him feel, he’s starting to appreciate it by the power it entails, by the strength that makes him shiver, by the sheer fact it comes from Damian, who tortures himself with that damnable flail and yet is unbreakable.

Tardif never walks in too much into the abbey; instead, he leans against one of the first pillars in the nave and crosses his arms, tilts his head, and listens. If he goes closer, Damian’s voice will be even more powerful. ( _And the damned flagellant will want to know why Tardif is there and by no means Tardif wants to give him the satisfaction of letting Damian know he very much likes to hear him chant._ )

And Tardif is so enthralled by the way Damian’s voice _moves_ that he only notices Stan after Stan is just standing there, looking at him.

He probably cursed out loud, because the chanting falters just a little as everyone by the altar turns around to see Tardif dart after a cackling Jester into the cool evening outside. Stan is tall and athletic, and while Tardif, too, is tall with long legs, he’s built and armoured. Stan gains advantage on the stairs, but once Tardif is on flat ground as well, he sprints like Stan has a prize on his head.

(Tardif is never walking around again without his grappling hook. He hates feeling safe. He hates that feeling safe makes him leave his gear at the barracks. He hates Stan. He hates Damian. He hates himself.)

The jingly bastard is within leaping distance. It’s not like Tardif is tired, he’s just… Tardif is not a runner, he’s a fighter. And so he leaps, roaring his wrath, but in the last moment, with a demonic cackle, the jester twists and ducks out of the way, laughing shamelessly as Tardif lands with his full weight on the cobble stones and knocks the air out of himself.

Stan is speaking nonsense – Tardif is too busy trying to breathe in again through the cloth shrouding his face while trying not to choke in blood from a split lip to fully understand what Stan is saying. Out of sheer fury, Tardif manages to push himself up, and after a few feeble attempts, he stands on his knees. Stan is already running again, vanishing into an alley with laughter and jingling, but there’s bloody revenge in Tardif’s mind and oh, he’ll get the bastard, he’ll-

A kick to the back has him falling flat on his chest again. His sternum must be bruised and pangs painfully at the impact, though this time the air isn’t knocked out of him. His fingers are already curling around a loose cobble stone that he intends to throw at his treacherous attacker as soon as he turns around.

“You, impious fiend!” Damian bellows from behind, and Tardif rolls on his back and swings the cobble stone at Damian – but misses, because the flagellant steps aside abruptly. “Aren’t you content in indulging in vice? Must you disturb offices, now?” Scrambling to his feet, Tardif assumes his guard and makes himself light on his feet. But Damian is just standing there, rigidly, pointing an accusing finger at him – the hand he uses is the one trapped by his spiked wristband. It bleeds when Damian performs that unholy flagellant magic of his, and Tardif does not like to be threated with it. “It falls to me to guide you back to the Light.”

 _I must...retreat!_ , Tardif thinks. Something is most definitely wrong with his chest, and while he does appreciate the coppery taste of his blood, it’s proving to be unsettling for the time being. His mind is still set on Stan, yet Damian’s presence and aggression are the perfect cue to start a fight.

Tardif has been itching to fight Damian. With all the sneaking into the abbey, lately, he has forgotten how much he enjoys a fight. Aggressive by nature, it doesn’t take much to lure Tardif into a fight. Experience has made him a better judge, though, and he scans Damian quickly and evaluates the situation.

His chest is hurt, he’s tired from sprinting after Stan, Damian is fresh… and is not looking for a fight, or he would be at Tardif’s throat by now (Tardif knows him, Damian is a vicious bastard).

“You stay away from me...” Tardif grunts instead, only to cough and wheeze immediately after. Pain flares, but he refuses to bend over and lose sight of Damian – the result is standing at an awkward angle, not bent yet not straight, with his arms standing rigidly next to his body in an attempt at stopping himself to reach for his chest.

Damian tilts his head and drops his threatening hand:

“The clown injured you,” he states, and the sheer thought of that _twink_ ever landing a blow powerful enough to knock his air out has Tardif growling in anger. He turns his back and leaves.

Tardif won’t stay in the barracks, though. No, not while he’s injured. Tardif takes his gear and pays for a room on the upper level of the tavern with his hard-earned gold. The solitude gives him shelter to cool off, and safety to remove his armour and check the damage done to his person.

His chest is bruised, and if he presses a finger into the muscle, it hurts. But he knows the pain, and he knows nothing his broken. His bottom lip is split quite badly, but like hell that will stop him from gulping down a couple of pints.

* * *

Whenever injured, Tardif makes himself scarce. Failing to be at peak performance always makes him feel like he carries a target on his back, and so he hides.

But right now, he’s simply embarrassed. And maybe plotting murder.

 _Stan_ , the freaking clown, grabbed his lute the moment Tardif showed his concealed face at the tavern and began to sing about a godless hunter lured by a siren into a church.

(Double murder, Reynauld had had no right to look so smug.)

And so Tardif is sitting at the edge of the bed, hunched over himself as he runs his thumb across the blade of his axe, like a lover’s caress. He’s down to a light tunic and breeches, and amidst chastising himself for having allowed Damian’s stupid chanting get to him, and having failed to notice Stan, and the pros and cons of leaving in the night, he almost doesn’t hear the insistent knocking on the door.

Tardif is a fully grown man and refuses to open the door. He reasons to himself it’s simply to prevent bloodshed.

“Tardif,” Someone calls from the other side of the door. Someone with Damian’s voice. “I’ll break down the door, Tardif.”

One thing Tardif has learned about Damian is that he has a knack for _action_. He would make such a wonderful warrior – why didn’t he become a crusader? 

“See me Light! Witness how I shrink not from the burden!” True to his word, the flagellant _will_ break down the door. Tardif startles at how the door, and the walls, and the little table next to the door, and the floor shake at Damian’s first attempt. Alarmed, Tardif jumps to his feet and runs across the room, to the door, but doesn’t get to it before Damian throws himself onto it a second time, causing dust and dead termites to fall from the old wooden frame. A third attempt will successfully break down the door, and Tardif hurries to open the door.

Damian barrels onto him instead, and with a pained huff, Tardif succumbs to be sudden impact and stumbles backwards, missing the bed for a few steps and falling on the floor. He lets out a pained groan and closes his eyes momently, only to grunt and whimper because Damian has made no motion to move away. 

“Get off…” Before Stan – or Reynauld, or anyone – sees them. Yet, Tardif doesn’t exactly make a move to shove Damian away. It’s not like the flagellant’s weight hurts his chest, much the contrary. It’s… comfortable.

But eventually, Damian leaps away, with much fumbling and unnecessary dusting off and worried tugs at his cowl to make sure his face is hidden. Then he’s back, standing too close to Tardif, pulling him up by the wrists:

“You did injure yourself,” he comments, staring very obviously at the unlaced front of Tardif’s tunic:

“Ah, so it wasn’t the clown?”

Damian’s mouth hangs open for a moment, like he was about to say something – but then it snaps closed and his thin lips turn downwards in an unimpressed line. It lasts only a second, however, and Damian smirks. The flagellant smirks in the most ominous, sadistic, evil, sensual way and Tardif must fight the urge of punching that smirk off Damian’s face.

“I heard a certain bounty hunter was very impressed with my humble chanting,” His tone drips with satisfaction and smugness. Tardif grunts and shoulders past him, to close the door lest _Stan_ appears:

“Where did you hear that nonsense from?”

“From the same clown that put that bruise on your chest.”

In a fit of petty annoyance, Tardif grabs the water jar standing at the small table beside the door, turns around and hurls it at Damian, who, with a delighted cackle, ducks away easily. The jar smashes itself against the wall, harmlessly, and water splashes Tardif’s bed.

Both men look at the shards scattered on the floor for a moment, until Damian sighs and approaches Tardif, still carrying a smirk. He goes as far as lowering his cowl and gracing Tardif with those wild blue eyes of his:

“If you’re interested, I can perform some hymns for you.”

“Sod off,” Tardif snarls and points the door.

* * *

The wide, dark, threatening room is slowly eroding Tardif’s grip on himself. He hears steps, hushed voices, the shuffling of booted feet on stone, the whispering of cloth as it moves, the hiss of blades being drawn.

He tries to imagine Damian’s voice filling the vastity of the room, shrinking the threat, owning the space, lighting the dark with his ridiculous hymns to a deity that demands his very own life in sacrifice. Over the last few weeks, Tardif had been listening religiously to the damn hymns – not the message, simply Damian’s voice. The flagellant had seemed quite pleased with having an audience of one, so much that last evening – the day before Tardif’s departure into an expedition – the abbot had basically pleaded Damian to stop chanting and give everyone a moment of peace. Back then Tardif had burst out laughing and had teased Damian about how he was unwanted by the very caste of churchmen he belonged to.

A bruise on Tardif’s right shoulder stands as testimony to Damian’s thoughts on the matter. Tardif raises a hand and presses it over his gambeson and scale mail, where the bruise is, trying to find comfort in it and to focus in something _real_.

“Smells of death here,” he grunts, looking around frantically. Audrey, sitting by the campfire and mending a hole in her hat, casts him an annoyed look:

“You’ve been saying that for a while, dear…” she snaps, but Tardif is already too deep into seeing what isn’t there.

And then… then things get confusing. Blurs, too fast, dizzying, filled with the creaking of hinges and shouting and roaring and squealing. Tardif isn’t sure of what happened, or what didn’t happen, yet he knows he’s trapped and wants out. He grunts and snarls and roars and screams and turns away from dark corners and rotten, disfigured bodies on the floor. He whimpers and sobs and goes after shadows, hoping to find an exit through them, but the shadows have him walking in circles. The walls around him grow spikes and begin to close in on him. In a panic, Tardif roars and snarls and screams and tries to punch the spikes, tries to stop the lid from shutting and trapping him and-

He jerks to a sitting position, flailing his arms and aiming his closed fists at nothing in particular, so brutal in his movements that he topples to the side and nearly falls off his cot. Strong arms wrap around him and prevent a fall, and a voice call his name. But Tardif keeps thrashing and wriggling and landing punches on whatever his wrists hit. He’s no longer in the dark, he’s in a white room flooded in sunlight, _but he’s trapped, the walls are closing in, the spikes, he must get out, he-_

Tardif is exhausted and slumps forwards, panting. He’s drenched in sweat and shaking, and momently forgets the walls are closing in on him and he must escape. He collapses against…

Frowning, Tardif blinks his eyes quickly and turns his head just slightly, burrowing his face into the crook of a neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Damian’s face, albeit unfocused.

Damian.

“Been an age since I saw the sun...” he rasps. His own voice sounds strange to him, but Damian will know it, will understand it. Damian understands most things Tardif says and doesn’t say – or so Tardif thinks, based on how the flagellant hadn’t gotten rid of him, yet.

Shortly after, they’re sitting side by side on a stone bench, wrapped in ivy. The garden in the cloister is small and unkept, like the small handful of resident monks can’t do such a simple job as gardening. Tardif comments the fact with Damian, who informs him there had been more pressing matters than gardening, like keeping the very walls of the abbey standing and the remaining roof from falling. Whatever. At least, Tardif feels the summer breeze, and the sun, and can see the clear sky above his head. There are no walls, no spikes closing in on him, there is so squealing. It’s not dark.

“I didn’t know this place had a garden,” he comments. He’s still hazy and pulls at the linen blanket that Damian cocooned him in before helping him out of the cell – it feels hot and uncomfortable.

But the weight of Damian’s hand between his shoulder blades, his fingers kneading the tense muscle absently… that is comfortable.

* * *

Tardif isn’t sure he’ll ever fully recover from claustrophobia, but as weeks go by, he improves.

He can stand sleeping in the barracks, though it took Damian dragging him from the street and forcing him to stay indoors (forcing him to stay in his bed, actually, by fighting Tardif into submission). He can also walk into the abbey again, past the hole in the roof, and stay closer to the altar (closer to Damian) as the flagellant chants. He can also dwell by the tavern, even when it’s crowded, without rampaging through the crowd and out the door (one night, someone had the brilliant idea of having Damian blocking the door).

Stan, the damnable clown, dares to make fun of him. Tardif will get him, one day. He’ll go for the lute, first: he’ll make Stan watch as he chops the lute with his axe, and then tosses the wood into the fire, and then scatters the ashes. _Then_ , he’ll go for Stan.

But that’s after they leave the cove. Tardif wants to focus on fighting, not in his surroundings, even if the two are inseparable. Damian is here with him, and with Baldwin, and with Amani. Damian, with his horrid blood magic, keeps Tardif’s sanity sewn together.

For a flagellant, Damian is… vicious. He preaches, he judges, he’s holier than Reynauld and Junia, and the ugly scars on him are evidence of how he so thoroughly fulfils his duties. But faced with enemies, Damian resorts to strike them first, kill them like any of the others do, and only then does he strike himself. Mostly at camp, snarling at Tardif to leave him alone to ‘heal’; sometimes, during an ugly fight, and it’s terrible to witness how Damian’s suffering keeps the party going.

The flagellant is deceiving, a toxic mixture of pious and fanatic and brutal trapped in a powerful body, commanded by a sharp mind. He’s complex and Tardif is obsessed with studying him.

Now, Tardif must fight him, for the Siren has gotten a hold of him. Baldwin is fending off the Siren’s minions and Amani is trying to destroy the Siren itself - it’s up to Tardif to keep Damian… busy. While Tardif usually appreciates a good, conventional fight with Damian, he’s not very sure he’s up for the task at hand.

Every merciless blow Damian lands on himself, Tardif feels it. His skin tears, his blood flows. And so Tardif has ditched his axe, and is trying to keep Damian from evading his grappling hook and _move_. They slip in the shallow water, and snarl and growl and grunt at each other – Damian’s cowl has fallen back and he stares at Tardif with wide, crazed blue eyes of a shade that isn’t really his. How ironic that _the siren_ that lured Tardif into the abbey is under the spell of the monster…

Damian, berserk, eventually overpowers Tardif and breaks free from ropes and from Tardif’s own grasp. He knocks Tardif’s face with the handle of his flail and slams Tardif against the wall of the cove. But he hesitates before continuing to destroy himself and Tardif, who watches, hopeful, as Damian’s grip on the flail loosens and it falls from his hand. The flagellant, too, falls.

Amani is turning her wrath against them, and only Tardif and Baldwin are in (poor) fighting condition. Damian is babbling something, stubborn as always, trying to reach for his flail. The Siren’s minions keep coming, Tardif feels the blood Damian stole, Baldwin is speared down.

Tardif is a bounty hunter. He kills, maims, blackmails and hunts for money. He binds himself to nobody, be it by the chains of loyalty or by the tangles of affection. Gold is worthless in the face of death, and with Damian and Baldwin in no condition to fight, it’s an easy decision to make. He uses what little strength and capability he has left to drag himself, the hulking leper, and that brick wall of flagellant out of the cove, but can’t take them further than the shore, not without passing out first on the sand only to startle awake hours later with angry waves wanting to pull their prize into the depths.

After that expedition, the mercenaries are quiet for a while. They understand, but they don’t. Lives don’t have the same weight for them as they have for Tardif. They are bound, and Tardif is not. (Stan played something on his lute one night, some folk song from Tardif’s childhood. Tardif reasoned his accent might have given him away, and he had to admit it was impressive Stan knew something from those lands. The gesture was appreciated, though.)

But Tardif is not bound. He claims so, as he climbs the steps to the abbey. He stops at the very top to catch his breath and glower at his still recovering leg, that throbs and threatens to fail him as he continues to walk on it, pretending to be invincible. The hole in the roof is becoming smaller, but Tardif can focus on the many, unobstructed windows in the walls.

He turns left into the transept, towards the penance hall. The right transept leads to the cloister. The heavy door is closed, but Tardif opens it and goes in, to find Damian on his knees, red cascading down his back.

“That’s enough, brute,” Tardif grunts, strides to Damian, holds his wrist and twists it to make Damian release that awful flail of his. There’s resistance, of course. The sneaky flagellant goes as far as using his free hand to dig a thumb into the injury in Tardif’s left leg. Soon enough, they’re tangled in each other, snarling and grappling until their recovering bodies give up the fight.

Tardif lies atop Damian this time, comfortable, and because Damian makes no motion to move, he doesn’t either.

“If I had been stronger-“ Damian begins. He’s been hiding since the cove, brutalizing himself without having fully recovered. He’s a vicious flagellant, but he’s so good, so caring in his own twisted way. Tardif is jealous of all the others Damian has taken upon his shoulders, a jealousy so raw he can’t understand it:

“It was my call to leave the lass behind,” Tardif grunts in reply. Under him, Damian sighs, raising Tardif with breathing alone and tickling his ear with the hot breath that escapes through his parted lips:

“I’m weak, Tardif. An unholy being took a hold of me. I must cleanse and strengthen myself.”

“You didn’t leave someone to die, so quit your whining,” Tardif remembers that Damian’s back is destroyed, and pressed on the ground. He pushes himself up and scrambles to his knees, then offers Damian a hand. But the flagellant doesn’t reach out to him:

“I should’ve been sacrificed, instead. Afterall, the burden-“

But Tardif storms (limps) out of the penance hall, clenched fists standing rigidly by his side. Isn’t he part of the burden, too?

* * *

More and more frequently, Tardif finds little satisfaction in being alone. He moved into a room above the tavern, again – Barristan probably didn’t mean the remark about comradeship to be directly to him, but Tardif took it as such. Whenever Tardif wanders the streets, he’s armed and alert. He feels uneasy, and logically he should grab his gold and leave somewhere else. Tardif doesn’t like to stay in the same place for long, lest he becomes the target.

And yet he’s leaning against a pillar, eyes roving the maze of scars and healing cuts on Damian’s broad, sculpted back. The flagellant’s voice, projected in that daunting manner and holding too much strength for a mortal, is Tardif’s preferred balm for his soul. Alcohol can’t compete with it, and neither can the most skilled of whores.

He understands some of the words Damian chants, now. Salvation, redemption, love, happiness. Tardif doesn’t believe it, and it hurts him, sharp and hollow yet pleasant. A yearning that gold can’t buy, strangely thrilling.

The silence that comes after Damian’s chant is brutal and overwhelming, so much that it has Tardif shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He doesn’t take his eyes off Damian, watching as the flagellant turns around, looking suddenly menacing with his cowl and collar. He doesn’t move when Damian approaches him and crosses his arms:

“Why are you here?” he asks. Tardif shrugs, grunts, arranges the cloth that covers his face. “You come to listen, but that hasn’t made you any more virtuous.”

“You’re one to talk about virtue…” Tardif replies, aggrieved. Damian can’t possibly be oblivious to the way he smirks, the way he hoods his eyes, the body he has, the challenge he presents, _his accursed voice_.

Something in Tardif’s words gets to the flagellant – Tardif knows the way Damian squares his shoulders. The threatening index finger, jabbing into Tardif’s coat of plates and that Tardif can’t push away because it’s that hand, the one imprisoned by the spiked wristband:

“I withstand temptation. Unlike you, bounty hunter,” Damian hisses, way too angry, deliciously so. Tardif sees the opening and tilts his head to the side:

“Ah, and what could possibly tempt you, holy man?”

A moment of silence. The walls close in on Tardif just a little. A final jab from Damian’s finger, much like an irremediable curse:

“It has been listening to me praising the Light over the summer!” Damian hisses and steps back. Retreating, cowering, in good churchman fashion. But Tardif knows Damian is better than that. Damian is not the ordinary churchman:

“What, is the burden suddenly too much, Damian?” he taunts.

It’s totally worth the right hook that hits his jaw.

It’s totally worth the upper cut in retaliation.

It’s totally worth the abbot bellowing from the right transept about how he can tolerate a flagellant, but not a petty fight in the house of the Light.

It’s totally worth seeing Damian turning his wrath at the abbot, and the kicks and elbowing as Tardif drags Damian out of the abbey before that idiot of a flagellant gets himself excommunicated for shouting curses and swears at an abbot in the house of the Light.

It’s totally worth the way their mouths clash once Tardif closes the door of his small room.

Damian is everything Tardif thought he would be - _wild_ , unbridled, overwhelming. He kisses with the same viciousness he beats himself with the flail: each nip at Tardif’s bottom lip is purposeful, each clash of teeth is a show of power, each flick of tongue promises for something better. Damian clings to Tardif’s armour, claws at the scales mail, tugs petulantly at the belt, snarls at how Tardif’s gloved fingers dig into his back. Damian is more than what Tardif bargained for, and Tardif is more than glad to use his finer technique to subdue Damian who, for all his might, has the weaknesses of an untrained man.

A helmet, a cowl, a collar and gloves leave an accusatory trail towards the bed, that creaks and sags under Damian’s and Tardif’s combined weight. Damian is still willing to put up a fight, rebelling against Tardif’s grip on him, trying to grab what little there is to grab of Tardif’s auburn hair to tug his head away. But Tardif is persistent, patient, and after successfully lodging a knee between Damian’s thighs, he manages to grab an earlobe with his teeth and pull.

Gradually, the fight wears off, and the calmer Damian gets, the gentler Tardif becomes. The digging of teeth into flesh is replaced by peppering kisses, bruising grips turn into adoring caresses. Damian goes from tugging at Tardif’s hair to card his fingers to it, alternating with massaging the shaved scalp on the back of Tardif’s head. Tardif goes from pinning Damian’s throat with a hand to cup his jaw and nuzzle at his clavicles.

Clothing is removed piece by piece, undamaged. Like the frenzied force of holy destruction that he is, Damian attempts once more to gain the upper hand – he goes as far as successfully flip them over and straddle Tardif, who’ll have none of that after having caught a glimpse of what victory looks like. He lifts his torso and latches onto Damian’s neck, biting where there are already bruises and drawing blood, dragging blunt nails down Damian’s side, sunken into the skin with enough depth and pressure to leave red swells behind.

With a little sound, Damian complies and burrows his head in the crook of Tardif’s neck. That earns Damian an appreciative kiss on a shoulder, over a scar, and Tardif lets his guard down, makes some little sounds of himself when Damian rubs against him. Thorough as he is, Tardif wants to take his time and so flips them over again – and just to be sure Damian won’t pull a stunt, he wraps his fingers around Damian’s neck and leaves his grip there, while trailing kisses down Damian’s chest and stomach.

But Damian’s hand, cupping his face and thumbing at his cheeks, doesn’t pull or claw. For once, Damian acknowledges he can’t always measure strength with Tardif. With a content grunt, Tardif releases his neck and turns his head to kiss Damian’s palm, then continues to trail down kisses down his stomach, inside his thighs, and now that Damian has understood fighting is unnecessary, Tardif tries a tentative lick at Damian’s shaft.

The sound he makes is even more delightful than the might of his voice when chanting, and Tardif is greedy – too much – when he takes Damian in his mouth and chokes. That damned flagellant has the cheek to snort, but Tardif will teach him, and instead of sucking, Tardif licks and nibbles with his lips. His initial plan is to find out how long Damian lasts – Damian, who can take hours of whipping, of fighting, of walking through monster-infested territory. But it seems that, yet again, Tardif underestimated Damian and overestimated himself. His wanting grows unbearable, and he doesn’t attempt to re-establish order when Damian wriggles away and throws Tardif on his back, to leave bites and wet stripes as he places open-mouthed kisses all over Tardif’s chest, as he licks around Tardif’s navel, and as ignores everything else – now that he learned from Tardif’s mistake – to carefully take Tardif in his mouth. Gradually, slowly. Tardif hums at that, shivers, even chuckles when Damian holds his buttocks in a momentary vicious grip, only to end up running his hands down Tardif’s thighs, appreciatively.

Pleasure builds and ripples, gaining a familiar weight. Tardif taps at Damian’s shaved head, to catch his attention, and when those blue eyes meet his, he pats the empty space next to him. He expects a fight, but Damian can be surprisingly reasonable sometimes, and he lies next to Tardif, keeps still and compliant when Tardif rolls atop of him – but follows attentively as Tardif reaches for the nightstand, fumbles with the drawer, manages to pull it open, and picks up a vial.

Damian narrows his eyes, menacing and always ready for a fight. Tardif presses a loving kiss to his forehead, but can’t help a smug smile:

“I come prepared. Always.”

The years have taught Tardif to always have a plan. The months in the hamlet have taught Tardif that Damian is nearly impossible to fit into a plan, but Tardif is flexible. He can plan, and he can go with the flow.

Damian just makes a face, but crosses his arms under his head when Tardif pulls away to settle between his spread legs. Tardif takes his time to slick Damian and stretch him – the fool probably wouldn’t mind it the hard way, but they can always go to the guild for pain. He stares attentively at Damian’s face, studying him, watching signs of discomfort masked with bravado crumbling away, until Damian fixes his half-lidded eyes on Tardif and _smirks_.

For a vicious flagellant, Damian is playful. He has a caustic sense of humour that annoys Tardif most times, but once the sarcasm and dryness are dropped, Damian is lively and _playful_. Tardif is not. Tardif doesn’t like jokes, doesn’t like humour, doesn’t like _playfulness_. He likes mock fights, though. And taunts. Damian could work with that, and in gratitude, Tardif tries to work with what Damian gives him.

To Damian’s smirk, he replies with quirked eyebrows and by thrusting in, slowly, gently. It definitely wipes off Damian’s smirk, but it also destroys Tardif’s pretence at nonchalance. He lies atop Damian, cups his face while Damian’s arms snake around his shoulders, hisses a curse at Damian for being so tight and good. In return, Damian promises him eternal damnation if he doesn’t move. Which Tardif does, eventually, ever so gently, drowning out moans and gasps in Damian’s wanting lips. Damian’s hands, always so quick to punch or to cast curses and blessings, move in slow circles on Tardif’s broad, muscular back. He won’t start a fight, and so Tardif lifts Damian’s hips a little, to settle him better over his folded legs and to have room to reach between them and pump Damian, matching his own pace.

The composure lasts just until Damian, ever the sneaky bastard, laces his legs behind Tardif’s back and tips him forward, to have him within reach and lick and nibble at his neck and nipples. But Tardif won’t be bested, and so he increases his pacing, blissfully unaware that, within short notice, his plan turns again him, leaving him pounding into Damian and pumping him with his head burrowed in the crook of Damian’s neck, chasing after their release, spurred on by pleasure and whipped into going faster and harder by Damian’s unbridled praise to his prowess.

Tardif has some more restraint. He still clenches his jaw at reaching climax, though he clings to Damian with abandon and leaves sloppy kisses all over his neck. Yet control slips from him when Damian reaches his own climax, moaning Tardif’s name and arching against him. Tardif’s tongue runs loose, then - remains so when Damian cradles him against his chest. And though Tardif is taller, he curls himself to fit his head under Damian’s chin, and nuzzles some more at Damian’s chest, enjoying the feeling of his stubble on smooth, sweaty skin.

“I fear no burden,” Damian comments after a moment, audibly smug. Tardif snorts, amused, and hums appreciatively when Damian presses a kiss to the top of his head.


End file.
